Heart of Steele by Brad Strickland, THOMAS E. FULLER Page B
Authors: Brad Strickland, THOMAS E. FULLER
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More broadsides rang out. The dons were brave but slow, between them managing to get off but one broadside to our two. Cannons roared again, and I clapped my hands over my ears and thanked our stars that neither of our enemies was the
Concepcíon,
nor had any of their crews trained under her captain, Don Esteban de Reyes. He would have handed us our heads by now, even with two barks instead of his great war galleon. Just then, part of our starboard railing exploded into splinters, and I feared for our mainmast and the men crouched beneath it.
Then we hulled the starboard bark, and herforemast came crashing down. She peeled away from us, her crew striving to clear her forecastle and keep her afloat. We pulled away from her but her sister kept coming, still firing away at us, cheered on by the sailors of the crippled bark.
But even stripped of her topgallant masts, the
Aurora
was the superior ship, and with the wind full behind us the remaining bark didn’t stand a chance of catching us. Still, far into the night she pursued us, blazing away with her bow-chasers until she finally dropped below the horizon and out of range.
Butcher’s Bill
FROM ALL I could tell, the
Aurora
was sound in body, though the Spanish broadsides had shattered her limbs. The main topmast was gone at the partners, shot clean away, and the foremast had been so badly sprung, a strong wind would snap it in two like a dry stick. The whipstaff had been shot through, and the crew had rigged a makeshift, meanwhile steering the frigate by means of pulling on ropes belowdecks, directed by a crewman shouting orders down through the cockpit.
But most of this I learned later, for busy were my uncle and I with the wounded. Three men had been killed outright: George Sawyer, Lloyd Jones,and Pondoo, who was one of the score or so of freed slaves who had willingly joined our crew. I had come to know these three men over our months at sea, and their deaths hit me hard. George Sawyer had been a navy man, mostly silent, but friendly and always willing to give a crewmate a rest by taking on part of his job. Jones had been a Welshman who loved a joke and a song, aimed his cannon as true as any could wish, and was our best fiddler. Pondoo, if that were even his real name, we had taken from our first prize. The poor man had been a slave, belonging to the Spanish captain of the very first privateer we had taken. When he heard our crew’s voices, he had pleaded, “I know English! Take me from this man, please. He beats me.”
Strong as any ox, many a time he had talked to me in his soft voice of his harsh life. He was taken from Africa, he had said, when he was but a child, and for a time was a slave on Tortuga, when that island was in English hands. Taken then by the French and sold to the Spanish captain, he lived a life of misery for many years. Once I had asked if he wished to go back to Africa.
“Don’t know,” he had said quietly. “My whole family was taken. What is Africa without my family?” His hope was that somehow he could find his mother, father, brothers, and sister in the New World, but that was a dim enough wish. Come to that, he thought his family might have died on the slave ship coming over from Africa, for on it they were treated like animals, separated one from the other, and chained, and half or more of them had died.
But though we had lost those three, the seventeen others who were wounded still had hopes of living, and my uncle worked like a dog over them, stitching and splinting, patching them up as best he could. It was remarkable to me always that the men seldom cried out or complained, even with the most terrible wounds. One old fellow, Davis by name, was placed on the operating table by some of his shipmates. The moment my uncle cut away Davis’s shirt, he shook his head. A horrible long spear of wood, probably part of a spar, had pierced him through the chest.
Blood dripped from the corners of his mouth. He said in a wheeze,
Concepcíon,
nor had any of their crews trained under her captain, Don Esteban de Reyes. He would have handed us our heads by now, even with two barks instead of his great war galleon. Just then, part of our starboard railing exploded into splinters, and I feared for our mainmast and the men crouched beneath it.
Then we hulled the starboard bark, and herforemast came crashing down. She peeled away from us, her crew striving to clear her forecastle and keep her afloat. We pulled away from her but her sister kept coming, still firing away at us, cheered on by the sailors of the crippled bark.
But even stripped of her topgallant masts, the
Aurora
was the superior ship, and with the wind full behind us the remaining bark didn’t stand a chance of catching us. Still, far into the night she pursued us, blazing away with her bow-chasers until she finally dropped below the horizon and out of range.
Butcher’s Bill
FROM ALL I could tell, the
Aurora
was sound in body, though the Spanish broadsides had shattered her limbs. The main topmast was gone at the partners, shot clean away, and the foremast had been so badly sprung, a strong wind would snap it in two like a dry stick. The whipstaff had been shot through, and the crew had rigged a makeshift, meanwhile steering the frigate by means of pulling on ropes belowdecks, directed by a crewman shouting orders down through the cockpit.
But most of this I learned later, for busy were my uncle and I with the wounded. Three men had been killed outright: George Sawyer, Lloyd Jones,and Pondoo, who was one of the score or so of freed slaves who had willingly joined our crew. I had come to know these three men over our months at sea, and their deaths hit me hard. George Sawyer had been a navy man, mostly silent, but friendly and always willing to give a crewmate a rest by taking on part of his job. Jones had been a Welshman who loved a joke and a song, aimed his cannon as true as any could wish, and was our best fiddler. Pondoo, if that were even his real name, we had taken from our first prize. The poor man had been a slave, belonging to the Spanish captain of the very first privateer we had taken. When he heard our crew’s voices, he had pleaded, “I know English! Take me from this man, please. He beats me.”
Strong as any ox, many a time he had talked to me in his soft voice of his harsh life. He was taken from Africa, he had said, when he was but a child, and for a time was a slave on Tortuga, when that island was in English hands. Taken then by the French and sold to the Spanish captain, he lived a life of misery for many years. Once I had asked if he wished to go back to Africa.
“Don’t know,” he had said quietly. “My whole family was taken. What is Africa without my family?” His hope was that somehow he could find his mother, father, brothers, and sister in the New World, but that was a dim enough wish. Come to that, he thought his family might have died on the slave ship coming over from Africa, for on it they were treated like animals, separated one from the other, and chained, and half or more of them had died.
But though we had lost those three, the seventeen others who were wounded still had hopes of living, and my uncle worked like a dog over them, stitching and splinting, patching them up as best he could. It was remarkable to me always that the men seldom cried out or complained, even with the most terrible wounds. One old fellow, Davis by name, was placed on the operating table by some of his shipmates. The moment my uncle cut away Davis’s shirt, he shook his head. A horrible long spear of wood, probably part of a spar, had pierced him through the chest.
Blood dripped from the corners of his mouth. He said in a wheeze,
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